In Wales at Laugharne at last I stand beside..his cliff-perched writing shed….above the coursing waters……where the hawk hangs still……..above the cockle-strewn shingleWhere he walked in a glory of all his days….(before the weather turned around)And aie! aie! a waterbird far away….cries and cries again……over St. Johns HillAnd in his tilted boathouse now….a tape of himself is playing —……his lush voice……..his plush voice……….his posh accent…………(too BBC-fulsome, cried the Welsh)…………..now echoes through his little…………….upstairs roomAnd aie! aie!…..echo the waterbirds once againBeyond his sounding shed….a fig tree hides the sea……A fishboat heeled over……..a grebe afloat far out……….a coracle abandoned…………a rusted coaler out of Cardiff still…………..a bold green headland lost in sunBeyond which lie
(across an ocean and a continent)….San Francisco's white wood houses……and a poet's sun-bleached cottage……..on Bolinas' far lagoon……….with its wind-torn Little Mesa…………(so very like St. Johns Hill)A single kestrel soars over….riding the salt wind……..'high tide and the heron's call'…………………………………..still echoing………..(Aie! aie! it calls and calls again)As in his listing boathouse now….his great recorded voice runs out……(grave as a gravedigger in his grave)……..leaving a sounding void of light……….for poets and herons to fill(Drowned down in New York's White Horse Tavern….he went not gentle into his good night)And Far West poets calling still….over St. Johns Hill……to the loveliest poet of all our days……..sweet singer of Swansea……….lushed singer of Laugharne…………Dylan of all our days